


Dream Weaver

by MercyBraavos, PsychLassieFan4Ever



Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercyBraavos/pseuds/MercyBraavos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychLassieFan4Ever/pseuds/PsychLassieFan4Ever
Summary: A pair of strange deaths bring the Winchesters and Castiel to sunny Santa Barbara, CA where investigating the case is complicated by territorial Head Detective Carlton Lassiter and snarky "Psychic" Shawn Spencer."I've just closed my eyes againClimbed aboard the dream weaver trainDriver take away my worries of todayAnd leave tomorrow behindOoh dream weaverI believe you can get me through the nightOoh dream weaverI believe we can reach the morning lightFly me high through the starry skiesMaybe to an astral planeCross the highways of fantasyHelp me to forget today's pain"-Dream Weaver, Gary Wright





	1. Climb Aboard the Dream Weaver Train

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the brainchild of two dedicated (and slightly obsessed) Supernatural/Psych fans. Comments are appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Spoilers: Psych - canon compliant up to and including 4x07 "High Top Fade Out" (except Abigail doesn't exist.) Supernatural - canon compliant up to and including 5x03 "Free to Be You and Me."
> 
> Welcome to our world. We hope you enjoy!

_ Santa Barbara, CA _

“You all right?” Kathryn Becker asked from across the lamp-lip bedroom, watching her husband flex his left wrist with a grimace on his face.

“Yeah, it’s just still sore is all,” Chris answered. He finished tying the drawstrings on his pajama pants and joined his wife in turning down the bed for the night.

Kathryn rolled her eyes and grabbed his pillow, fluffing it for him after his second failed attempt. “Stubborn,” she scolded and threw it back. “Maybe you should stop trying to strangle your boss in your sleep and you might not wake up with injured extremities.”

Chris rolled his eyes at her and flopped down, effectively flattening his newly-fluffed pillow. “I just slept on it wrong.” He flexed his wrist again, noticing but intentionally ignoring the faint finger-shaped bruises that ran vertically along the skin.

“That’s what you said about your shoulder last week,” Kathryn half laughed, half yawned. She looked over at him after a moment, her expression serious. “Really though… you’re not happy there and you know it. I don’t understand why you put yourself through this day after day. You’re not sleeping well; you wake up miserable and…” She sighed, tired of rehashing the same old argument. Her husband’s boss was a thoroughly unpleasant man.

“He’s the best tax attorney in the state, Katie. Three years, babe. Three years and then the old man retires and the practice is mine.” He switched off his bedside lamp and rolled toward his wife. “Now c’mere. Help me sleep better, OK?”

Katie gave in and turned off her own lamp before settling into her husband’s arms. “Three years,” she mumbled before drifting off.

\--

The first thing Katie noticed was the incessant blaring of the alarm clock. The offensive piece of machinery was on Chris’ side of the bed, but he usually woke up early and turned it off so he could kiss her awake.

The second thing Katie noticed was complete silence. Chris snored like a lumberjack; a condition only acceptable because Katie slept like the dead.

The third thing Katie noticed was that Chris was _cold_. His arm was still draped around her, heavy and inanimate. She rolled over.

The fourth thing that Katie noticed was that someone was screaming. ‘That’s me,’ she thought dimly. Her rational mind detached, taking in the blue tinge of her husband’s lips, the clearly broken line of his neck and the blank, wide-open stare of his coffee-brown eyes.

Chris was dead. Katie screamed. And the alarm continued to sound.

\--------------

_ 36 Hours Later – California State Route 154, Los Padres National Forest _

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean Winchester jerked the wheel of the Impala in shock, sending his Baby careening into oncoming traffic. Well, into the lane in which oncoming traffic would be if anyone else was dumb enough to be driving through a National Forest at 4 o’clock in the damn morning.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean groused at the angel who’d appeared in the passenger’s seat, “we’ve talked about this. Friggin’ announce yourself or something.”

“I did say ‘hello’,” Castiel said reasonably. “Perhaps I should wear a bell around my neck.”

“Cas, did you just make a joke?” Dean asked, regarding his passenger out of the corner of his eye.

“I believe so.”

Dean shook his head, bemused. “Shut up, nerd.”

“All right, Dean.”

\--

_ 9AM – Santa Barbara Police Station _

Pulling into the SBPD parking lot, Dean darted his eyes around looking for an empty spot only to find the visitor’s spaces filled by a rented hybrid and a hatchback abomination that looked like a giant blueberry. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I’m going to swing around and find a place to park. Do you want to pop out and scout the station?”

Naturally, Castiel didn’t answer, having vanished halfway through Dean’s question.

“Angels, man,” Dean complained to no one in particular.

After finding an open spot two blocks away, Dean straightened his tie, double checked for his phony FBI badge and headed back toward the police station. He turned to bound up the Spanish-tiled steps and smacked right into – oh for Christ’s sake.

“Sammy what the _hell_ are you doing here?”

“My guess would be the same thing you are: investigating the two people who seem to have killed each other in their sleep from 10 miles apart.” Sam Winchester replied in equal parts irritation and excitement. Existential crisis or not, Sam did love showing off his capacity for research. “I read the police reports and the victims’ wives both claim their husbands had been having increasingly violent nightmares about each other and according to the coroner’s report both men had recent injuries in addition to the mortal ones and there are matching defensive wounds but the report doesn’t actually call them that, but you could see from the crime scene photos –“

“Sammy. Breathe.”

Mercifully, Sam stopped speaking, opting instead to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and look sheepishly from Castiel to Dean.

“Fine.” Dean crossed his arms and laid the ground rules. “Since you’re already here we’ll do this but after we gank whatever the hell is screwing around here, Cas and I go our way and you go yours. Got it?”

Sam shrugged his agreement and straightened his jacket. “And just who is Cas supposed to be? FBI agents don’t usually travel in threes.”

“Local paper says this department uses a psychic,” Dean considered – putting up a hand at Sam’s intent to interrupt, “not that kind of psychic. So maybe we brought our own?”

“He’s not psychic,” Castiel said, speaking for the first time since Dean’s arrival.

Both brothers turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“How do you know that?” Sam asked.

“I _am_ a celestial being. Also, he’s standing right there.” Castiel pointed toward the top of the stairs where a young man was backing out of the station door.

Dean regarded him for a moment. Attractive, in a surfer dude sort of way. He was arguing with a taller man who was all clean lines and professionalism; a gold badge glinting at his belt.

“Lassie-face!” the not-psychic was pleading, “it’s not the wife… it’s not _either_ wife!”

“It’s _always_ the wife, Spencer,” the detective yelled back.

An African-American man appeared at Spencer’s side, plucking at his lavender shirt in irritation. “Shawn, let’s just go. I haven’t eaten in an hour,” he pleaded, his tone bordering on desperate. “Come on, waffles with maple syrup, whipped butter, whaaat?”

“Gus, don’t be a tube of mostly-broken Pringles,” Shawn said inexplicably. “If the wives were the killers then why have we been joined by two G-Dudes and Trench Coat Man? Clearly this case is bigger than we thought!”

The pair of trios regarded each other for a moment before the not-psychic surfer dude spoke again.

“Hello! I’m Shawn Spencer and this is my partner Double Stuft Chocolate Crème Oreo!”

\--

_ 30 minutes earlier… _

“Ow! Dude, too hard!” Shawn shouted, rubbing the spot on his side Gus had just elbowed.

“We’re here and you’re drooling on my upholstery! This is a company car, Shawn!” Gus chided, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I don’t know why you’re sleeping anyway.”

“Because it’s like 5 o’clock in the morning,” Shawn whined.

“It’s 8:30, Shawn.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“Do I need to slap you in your face?”

Shawn rolled his eyes and got out of the car, noting the rental plates on the hybrid parked next to them and the floppy-haired dude reading a casefile in the front seat. Leaning down to see himself in the side mirror, he adjusted the beaded chain around his neck, checked his hair and straightened the open button-down he wore over a grey t-shirt.

“Dude, are you _primping_?” Gus asked with a hint of disgust in his voice.

“Sorry, Gus, I can’t hear you over the sound the lavender scalp oil in your glovebox.”

Gus smoothed his hands over his head defensively. “I’m a player, Shawn and I am velvety smooth.”

“Wow,” Shawn laughed, “you literally could not have phrased that any worse.” He smacked Gus on the shoulder as they continued bickering their way into the police station. Rounding the corner inside, they ran into a frazzled looking Juliet. “Jules!” Shawn called at the top of his lungs, satisfied when half the station turned to look at him, but irritated when Lassiter didn’t even flinch.

“Shawn, Gus, come on, you’re late and the Chief’s waiting.” Juliet pushed at an errant lock of hair and motioned for them to follow her. She and Gus made a beeline for the Chief’s office, but Shawn lingered a bit.

“Mornin’, Lass-a-fras,” he drawled, sidling up to Lassiter’s desk.

“Go away, Spencer.” Lassiter grumbled, draining an entire cup of coffee while staring straight ahead.

“Woah there, Lass. Long night?” Shawn waggled his eyebrows, trying to get a reaction out of the unusually quiet detective. Normally, Lassiter would have threatened to literally kick him out of the station by now. Instead, he just stood up and walked away.

Perplexed, Shawn walked behind Lassiter as they made their way toward the Chief’s office. He couldn’t stop himself from checking out the detective’s backside. Something about the way those hips moved today had Shawn blushing. It wasn’t completely his fault. He’d had the most erotic dream about Lassiter last night. It wasn’t the first time he had dreamt about being naked and getting down to naughty sexy times with the man, but there was ‘something’ about last night’s dream that left him with a longing to want to make a real move.

If only real life Lassiter could be as willing and open as dream Lassiter. If only.

“Mr. Guster, Mr. Spencer. I want the two of you to work on this case because it seems to have…” Vick paused and swallowed before her next words, “something _supernatural_ going on.”

Shawn usually loved the cases that the Chief felt squeamish to talk about, but today he just couldn’t focus. He glanced over to where Lassiter sat and caught the detective looking at him momentarily before he shifted his eyes away. He turned back to give the appearance of paying attention, but Shawn could only think back to last night.

\--------------

_“Oh, my God, Lassie.” Shawn had been pushed onto his bed with such force the air in his lungs caught for a moment. It felt like Lassie released several years of pent up frustration at him with the shove. Within moments, his legs were trapped underneath the lanky frame of the detective as Lassiter straddled him._

_“I have wanted to touch you for so long, Spencer.” Lassie’s hands slid under his t-shirt and the spark of the touch made Shawn gasp loudly._

_“If you’re gonna touch me like that, Lassie, you’d better start calling me ‘Shawn’.”_

_Instead of responding, Lassie grabbed hold of the shirt and pulled it up and off of him forcefully. Shawn’s dick twitched at the manhandling and he went to work unbuttoning Lassie’s shirt. He wondered briefly, if this was his dream why he was having to work so hard to get to the good stuff._

_The good stuff being what he wanted the most at that moment: a naked Lassie._

_The two of them worked their clothes off without tangible words to each other and once they were both naked, it was just hands on skin and wet licks and nips. Their bodies were so warm and Shawn’s nerves vibrated with the anticipation of how far the dream would let them go._

_Shawn closed his eyes when Lassie’s hand wrapped around his cock. It felt so nice to have someone else’s hand on him after so long. A hand that knew what to do with the member: how hard to squeeze, where to press and how far to pull. Lassie’s hands never slowed and Shawn wondered what it would take to get real life Lassie to touch him like that. He felt the bed shift and nearly screamed when a nice, hot, wet mouth surrounded him._

_“Oh, Jesus.” Shawn reached down and ran his hands through Lassie’s hair and pulled. The vibration of the growl that elicited felt extraordinary, but caused him to thrust too far and Lassie gagged and pulled off._

_“Sorry.”_

_“Don’t be.” Lassie shifted and Shawn felt a finger at his entrance. “Where do you keep your lube, Sp-Shawn?” Shawn lifted his legs around Lassie._

_“Silly, Lassie. This is a dream. Come on, just do me.” Shawn smirked that even in his dreams, Lassie was such a ‘by the book’ man. The smirk fell at the pressure of Lassie’s dick against him as he pushed in.  His eyes opened wide and his fingernails pressed into the man’s neck when there was a flash of blinding pain._

_“Shawn. You’re too… ack.” Lassie stopped and repeated his earlier question. Shawn opened his nightstand drawer and with the addition of the lubricant, they continued._

_Shawn had never felt so full as he did while they fucked. His lover’s thrusts were powerful and amazing; they hit his prostate every time. He felt his orgasm building from the soles of his feet and his toes curled. Shawn grabbed Lassie’s ass, dug his fingers into his cheeks and pulled. Lassie slammed into him just as he wanted, but he was taken by surprise when Lassie paused, pressed his whole body against him and kissed him._

_He allowed the man’s tongue into his mouth and Lassie started to move inside him again. He wasn’t thrusting, instead grinding his hips to his own. Shawn had never had someone work this move on him and he loved it. Lassie’s dick slowly dragged against his prostate while the friction of his pelvic area rubbed and supplied pressure to his own erection._

_He had never before imagined that sex with Lassie would be just_ so _satisfying. Shawn was in an orgasmic state for several minutes as he felt himself being fucked, jacked off and kissed simultaneously. He could only take this for so long, but then Lassie’s rhythm changed and the kissing had stopped. Lassie had sucked Shawn’s lip into his mouth and it felt like the man was gently biting on it._

_Shawn realized that Lassie was trying to stave off his own orgasm as long as he could. He wanted Shawn to come first, and at that moment, Shawn did._

_“Christ. Oh my God.” Lassie released his bottom lip and grunted through his own orgasm at nearly the same time. Shawn felt the pulse of the dick deep inside him while Lassie held himself up on shaky arms. They were connected for only minutes longer before Lassie pulled out and rolled off of him._

_Shawn was thinking he should say something or at least offer a thank you, but just as he turned his head and made eye contact with the man beside him, he woke up._

\--------------

“Shawn!” He blinked back to where he was currently sitting in the Chief’s office and Gus elbowed him.

“Sorry, just distracted. By the spirits, Chief.” He tried to cover up his lack of actually paying attention as Vick passed the case file over to Gus.

“Just do what you can to figure out how these two people were murdered.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Everyone moved to leave the office, but Shawn noticed that he had aroused himself with thinking of last night. He stood as slowly as he could and then snatched the case file from Gus and covered himself with it as he walked out the door.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gus hissed, pulling him aside. “You were zoned out for that entire briefing.”

“Relax, Gus.” Shawn sat down at Dobson’s empty desk and glanced through the casefile until he found the crime scene photos. Flipping through them he zeroed in on the defensive wounds on the first victim that matched the second victim’s hands. _Interesting_. He found Woody’s reports at the back of the file. The estimated times of death were the same. “Huh,” he said out loud.

“The wife?” Gus shrugged, clearly not convinced and Shawn gave him a look that clearly said _‘come on, son.’_

“What did the Chief mean when she said ‘supernatural’,” Shawn wondered aloud.

Gus stared at him. “Were you paying attention to _anything_ in there? Look at the man’s neck!” Gus pointed at the first crime scene photo, looking faintly nauseated at the broken bones protruding from the neck of the victim. “That’s a violent break, Shawn. According to the first responders, Kathryn Becker is 100lbs soaking wet. There’s no way she did that, but there’s no evidence that anyone else was in the room!”

“Still,” Shawn argued, “seems a stretch to jump right to ghosts or something.”

“You’re talking about a woman who hires a psychic detective agency on a regular basis, Shawn.”

“Good point, let’s not rock that boat.” Shawn snapped the file closed and looked around. “Gimme a minute, OK?”

Feeling a little more in control of himself, Shawn sauntered back to Lassiter’s desk and perched on the edge of it. He watched for a moment while the detective dumped a metric fuckton of sugar into a fresh cup of coffee. Lassiter stirred his cloying concoction and looked up, meeting Shawn’s eyes briefly.

Was Lassie… blushing?

 _Interesting,_ Shawn thought again.

“I have some ‘grieving widows’ to bring in for questioning,’ Lassiter snapped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Why? They didn’t do it.”

“Shawn, if you do not get your ass off my desk and out of this station in the next thirty seconds, I am going to discharge my weapon into your face.”

Any progress Shawn had made at tamping down his dream-fueled arousal was _gone_. Lassiter had not only called him ‘Shawn’ but had implanted a graphic visual of Lassie naked, except for his leather holster, standing over Shawn, stroking himself until-

“Spencer, get out!” Shawn stepped back too late and Lassiter’s fist closed around the collar of his shirt.

“Gus!” Shawn yelled, “we appear to be leaving!”

Gus glanced up from where he’d been showing Juliet a new app on his phone in time to see Shawn being literally dragged around the corner and down the stairs. “Ah, later Jules,” he said and dashed after his best friend.

“Lassie-face!” Shawn pleaded as Lassiter backed him out of the station’s front door, “it’s not the wife… it’s not _either_ wife!”

“It’s _always_ the wife, Spencer,” the detective yelled back.

Gus popped out from behind Lassiter, looking legitimately frightened. “Shawn, let’s just go. I haven’t eaten in an hour. Come on, waffles with maple syrup, whipped butter, whaaat?”

“Gus, don’t be a tube of mostly-broken Pringles,” Shawn said. “If the wives were the killers then why have we been joined by two G-Dudes and Trench Coat Man?”

Shawn narrowed his eyes. The taller G-Dude was the same floppy-haired man who’d been reading in the hybrid. The other one – who had some seriously fantastic hair – had clearly arrived separately. Shawn wasn’t sure _what_ to make of the guy in the trench coat except that he was completely unreadable. _Interesting_ , Shawn thought for the third time in thirty minutes. _Let’s see what we can see._

“Hello!” He shouted with his usual bravado. “I’m Shawn Spencer and this is my partner Double Stuft Chocolate Crème Oreo!”

The suited pair exchanged glances before simultaneously reaching into their jacket pockets and flipping open their FBI badges.

The taller man spoke first, “I’m Agent Crosby,” he said by way of introduction, “and this is-“ The pause was uncertain and incredibly brief, but Shawn caught it all the same.

“Agent Young,” the other man finished.

Shawn smirked to himself. _FBI my ass._ Shawn, a practiced and inveterate liar, knew a fraud when he saw one… or two.

“We’re here investigating the deaths of Christopher Becker and Jacob Carpenter.” Crosby directed his comments to Lassiter having either dismissed Shawn or picked up on Shawn’s suspicions.

Shawn glanced behind him and chuckled as Lassiter stared, rapt at the ‘FBI agents.’

“Head Detective, Carlton Lassiter, Santa Barbara Police Department,” Lassiter said, clambering down the steps to enthusiastically shake their hands. He glanced, eyebrows raised, at their trench coated companion.

“Oh,” Young cleared his throat. “This is our division psychic, Mr… Springfield.” Shawn didn’t miss Crosby’s eyeroll or the way Lassiter’s face fell slightly at the mention of a new psychic.

“I wasn’t aware the Bureau utilized… psychics.” Lasstier said carefully, but then brightened a bit. “However, that means we’ll no longer be needing your services, Spencer. Go home.” And with that, he escorted the three visitors into the building without looking back.

Gus sputtered at Shawn, “does this mean we don’t get paid?!”

Shawn was still looking at the entrance to the station, “Something tells me we’ll be fine, buddy, because I don’t know who those dudes are, but they are _not_ FBI.” He ignored Gus’ incredulous look and turned on his heel, heading back to the blueberry. “WAFFLES.”

Gus fell into step beside him. “You know that’s right.”

_TBC…_

 

 

 


	2. Driver Take Away My Worries of Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agent Crosby - Sam  
> Agent Young - Dean  
> Springfield - Castiel
> 
> Lassiter’s “I would rather…” in this chapter is lifted from ‘Dexter’ 5x05 “First Blood” and should be credited to Tim Schlattmann. (It’s literally Deb’s best line in the entire series and it deserves to be homage’d, lol.)

\--

Lassiter led the two FBI agents and their ‘psychic’ into the station as quickly as possible. Spencer’s proclivity for getting in his personal space was always unnerving, but coupled with the intense and _vivid_ dream he’d had about Shawn the night before being in the man’s presence was excruciating. He’d dreamt about Spencer before, typically various scenarios in which he managed to shut Spencer up by putting his mouth to better use.

Last night was different. Last night felt _real_ and Lassiter had briefly entertained the idea of talking to his therapist about it, but the idea of actually voicing his attraction to Spencer to _anyone_ – even someone he literally paid to keep quiet – was heart-stopping. _I would rather put out a campfire with my face,_ he thought to himself.

“O’Hara,” he called, striding past Juliet’s desk, “conference room – and grab the case files for Becker and Carpenter!” When she didn’t answer, Lassiter glanced back to see her quickly end a call and slam her cell phone onto her desk. “O’Hara?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah, I heard you, Carlton. I’ll be there in a minute,” she snapped.

He considered asking if she was OK, but… feelings and talking and no.

Instead, he continued into the conference room with his FBI guests. Crosby and Young sat down with Lassiter at the rectangular table while their odd ‘psychic’ stood in the corner of the room regarding an artificial potted plant with a kind of distant interest.

“So,” Lassiter said, glancing back over that the strange trench coat wearing man. “Is he… communing with the plant?” _What the actual fuck did I just ask?_

“These leaves are synthetic,” the ‘psychic’ replied in a low, gravelly voice that didn’t seem to have any business coming out of his mouth. “A crude polyester-rayon blend. It is not a living being therefore there is nothing with which I can commune.”

The shorter agent sighed and shook his head slightly while his partner with the inappropriate haircut actually snorted out an undignified laugh. For federal agents they were certainly… unconventional.

Luckily, Juliet saved him from having to reply to that by rushing into the room and dropping two case files onto the table. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I had a phone call. Family emergency. Not emergency. Just urgent family thing and I-“

Lassiter, who had been opening up the files to share with the agents, looked up as Juliet went quiet. She was staring at something; her mouth slightly open, cheeks decidedly pink. He followed her gaze and landed on the long-haired Agent Crosby. He looked back at Juliet who was blushing deeper and seemed very concerned with her hair. He glanced back over to see Agent Crosby push his own hair behind his ear and smile at her. He swung back to Juliet who outright _giggled._

Oh.

Oh, gross.

“Detective, won’t you please join us?” Agent Young spoke this time and Lassiter took in his amused expression with disdain. _He_ was allowed to think his partner was acting like a schoolgirl, but anyone else had better shut their trap about it.

Wordlessly, Juliet sat down and gave Lassiter a slightly pleading look. He took pity on her and changed the subject, walking the FBI agents through the crime scene photos and coroner’s reports. Both Becker and Carpenter were killed in their beds in homes that were locked tight from the inside. There were no signs of forced entry and no fingerprints in the bedrooms other than the victim’s and their wives’.

“I have both wives coming in this afternoon for questioning,” Lassiter said. “Given that they were the only ones present during the murders it certainly points to their involvement. Perhaps even a conspiracy to get rid of their husbands.”

The two agents exchanged glances.

“Of course you’re both welcome to observe the interrogation,” Lassiter said quickly in case he’d offended them by not already offering.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Detective.” Agent Young replied. “I’d actually like to examine the bodies. Do you think we could talk to your coroner and then Crosby and I can visit the crime scenes while you handle the interviews?”

“I’m sure we can arrange that.” He was pleased that the agents didn’t want to interfere with his interrogation, but disappointed that they wouldn’t see him in action.

Next to him, Juliet was fidgeting uncomfortably, but – to his utter relief – wasn’t staring at Agent Crosby anymore, but down at her hands which she was twisting anxiously. He was considering asking her to go do something – anything, anywhere else when their ‘psychic’ suddenly spoke.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to the strange man. He was looking directly at Juliet with a pensive expression on his face, his head tilted slightly to the side.

Juliet blinked at him. “I don’t-“

“Your father,” he continued. “He contacted you for assistance and you feel remorse for refusing to help. Your feelings are natural, but unnecessary. His problems are his own. You don’t need to take on his burden.”

Juliet was blinking rapidly, eyes frantic and confused. “What are you doing?” she whispered, distraught.

“I am certain he loves you.” The ‘psychic’ gave her a small nod as though they’d had a perfectly normal exchange.

Juliet fled.

Lassiter rounded on him. FBI consultant or not, he was going to explain what the _Christ_ he’d just done to O’Hara and he was going to explain it _now._ But before he could get a word out, Agent Crosby leapt up and followed Juliet out of the room.

Crosby’s partner put both hands up in supplication. “He’s real good with… feelings type things,” he said and then turned to his other companion. “Shut. Up.” He looked equal parts resigned and annoyed.

“I _am_ sorry,” said the ‘psychic’, “she just seemed sad and it was very important for her to understand that she has no reason to feel guilty.”

Agent Young glared at him. “What part of ‘shut up’ did you not understand?” He looked back at Lassiter. “I apologize for my, uh, colleague. His people skills are… rusty.” He clapped his hands sharply. “So! Let’s go see some corpses?”

\--

Sam jumped to his feet and followed Detective O’Hara out of the conference room. He understood that Cas was doing his best to ease her discomfort with whatever was happening with her father, but Castiel didn’t exactly know how to go about things tactfully. He glanced back through the doorway to see her partner glaring at Castiel.

_Damn it, Cas._ He hoped Dean could handle the situation and keep the SBPD detectives cooperating with them. He hated having to sneak around the police to work on their cases.

He caught up to Detective O’Hara as she leaned against a wall near a row of desks. She wasn’t crying, but was taking deep breaths in a manner that suggested to Sam that she was near to tears.

“Detective O’Hara?” She looked up at him and gave him a sad slight smile. She was attempting to be polite even through her emotional moment. Sam cleared his throat as he couldn’t help but find her attractive in her vulnerable state.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Springfield. He’s impossibly perceptive, but we’re still teaching him how to behave with humans. He was out of line and I’m sure my… Agent Young will have a word with him.”

She sniffled and glanced away for a second before looking back at him.

“It’s just… things are complicated with my family. With my father most of all.  Mr. Springfield is right; I need to realize that his problems are his own. I’m just worried about him and if he gets in trouble again. If he calls my brothers for help and tells them I didn’t lend a hand, I’m not sure my brothers will understand why I wouldn’t.”

“Family is complicated. Springfield may be blunt, but he’s usually correct. Surely your father’s troubles will work themselves out the way they should without you feeling guilty. Guilt is terribly time consuming... believe me, I know.”

“Thank you.” She brought a hand to his arm and squeezed. Sam looked at her and something just thunked in his heart. He knew he couldn’t possibly get involved with Detective O’Hara; his life wasn’t built for attachments like that. In that moment, though, he wanted to take a step and try. She must have felt his stare lingered too long as her face blushed and she stepped back a step.

“So, uh, Detective. Maybe we should get back to the group?”

“Juliet. Please, call me Juliet, Agent Crosby?”

“Uh, Sam. You can just use Sam, if you want.”

“I think I do.” Juliet looked past him in the direction of the conference room. It was empty. “Looks like everyone has moved to the Coroner’s office.”

Sam waited for her to head towards the stairs, but when she turned back at him, he smiled.

“I don’t know about you, Sam, but I really don’t want to look at dead bodies right now. The three of them should be able to handle whatever’s going on down there. Want some coffee? Looks like Officer Miller just put on a new pot.”

Sam wasn’t really a coffee drinker, but who was he to say no to the beautiful Juliet? The way she said his name made parts of him go all tingly. He decided to stay with her and spend as much time as he could in her presence. Sam found that he couldn’t not smile around her. How Juliet’s partner held such a stoic and stern face was beyond him at the moment.

She handed him the hot coffee and they sat at her desk.

“So, the SBPD has their own psychic? How long has that arrangement worked?”

“Shawn’s been with us for a couple of years now. He’s a bit unconventional, as I’m sure working with your Mr. Springfield has shown you, am I right?”

“Quite.”

“It’s all a bit unorthodox with him around, but I can’t deny he’s been invaluable in the cases he’s helped us on, even though Lassiter would never admit that with Shawn in the room.”

The two of them continued to talk until they heard their partners coming back up the stairs. Detective Lassiter walked up the steps first, followed several minutes later by Dean and Cas. Sam caught the psychic and his friend elbowing each other as they headed out of the station. They seemed like they were playing around instead of dealing with the case seriously. He hoped the pair wouldn’t cause them any trouble in figuring out what happened with Becker and Carpenter.

\--

_30 minutes earlier…_

“What are we missing here, Gus?” Shawn was hunched over casefiles at his desk in the _Psych_ office. One hand was flipping through crime scene photos while the other clutched a syrupy fork covered in pineapple and waffle bits.

Gus, who had practically crawled into his own takeout container of waffles, shrugged at him. “Theoretically, the wives could have let an assailant into the houses. If they were wearing gloves it would explain the lack of fingerprints.”

“Yeah, but look at this,” Shawn said, flipping one of the photos in Gus’ direction. “This guy is practically beaten to a pulp but there’s no blood anywhere else in the room! Nothing is out of place, there’s no signs of a struggle at either scene,” he shook his head. “I don’t understand. There’s something I’m not seeing.”

“Maybe they were drugged and couldn’t fight back,” Gus offered, resolutely refusing to look at the gruesome pictures.

Shawn raised his eyebrows and thumbed to the back of each file. “Woody ran tox screens on both victims, but they aren’t back yet.” He put down his fork and leaned back, chewing on a fingernail in contemplation. “I want to go look at some dead dudes. You done with those waffles yet?”

Gus made a thick sound in the back of this throat and threw Shawn a dirty look. “I am _now_ ,” he grumped.

“Come on, buddy!” Shawn called, already bounding halfway out the door. Gus shook his head ruefully and followed his partner to the car.

\--

When they arrived at the station, Gus slipped into jackal mode and they tiptoed carefully through the bullpen in an effort to avoid Lassiter. Shawn spotted Juliet in a quiet alcove near her desk. She looked upset, but the floppy-haired FBI agent – not that Shawn believed that’s what he was – was smiling softly at her, saying something in low tones that made her look up at him, a grateful expression on her face.

Shawn watched them for a moment, torn. The guy was clearly a fraud ( _so are you_ , his brain reminded him) but Shawn was also positive that neither the ‘agents’ nor their creepy colleague intended anyone harm. He mentally shrugged and continued scanning the area for Lassiter before seeing that he was in the conference room with the other two visitors. He also looked pissed. Shawn grinned to himself. Pissed off Lassie was extra hot.

“ _Shawn_ , we need to move,” Gus whispered nervously.

Glancing back, Shawn tipped his head toward the steps leading down towards Woody’s lab and together they snuck by, evading anyone who could give them away.

“Woody!” Shawn shouted, bursting through the double doors with exuberance.

“Shawn!” Woody answered warmly. “How is my favorite still-alive person doing today?”

“Fantastic as always, PonyWood!” Shawn answered with a grin. He adored Woody. He lowered his voice conspiratorially and gestured to the sheet-covered bodies adorning the metal tables in the lab. “Any chance we could take a look at those murder victims? Are these them? Borgin and Burkes?”

“Becker and Carpenter, Shawn!” Gus corrected in exasperation. “Borgin and Burkes is the name of a dark magic antique shop in _Harry Potter_!”

“Why do you _know_ that?”

“Why do _you_?!” Gus countered.

“You were mumbling it in your sleep the other night.”

Gus looked at him, horrified. “What were you doing in my apartment in the middle of the night?”

“I ran out of Froot Loops,” Shawn shrugged and Gus threw his hands up in frustration.

Woody was looking at them affectionately, leaning his elbows on one of the bodies. “God, I love you guys.”

Shawn’s amused response was drowned out by a viciously loud “SPENCER!” from behind them. He turned to see Lassiter, obviously incensed, with the other fake FBI agent and their strange, quiet psychic in tow. Lassie stepped closer to him, almost too close. Blue eyes pinned him in place and Shawn willed himself not to get hard. “Was I or was I not clear that you were to go home?” Lassiter asked, his tone deadly.

Shawn grinned at him, “you told me to go home, sure, but you didn’t specify _whose_ home and since Woody practically lives here I figured you meant I should come examine the victims’ bodies for psychic clues!”

Lassiter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Shawn could tell he was about to be tossed out of the station again. _Time to improvise_.

“OH!” He yelled, and threw himself heavily into one of the metal tables. The corpse on it jiggled a bit and Gus whimpered. “It’s the spirits, they’re saying… they’re saying…” he remembered Gus’ idea about the victims being drugged, “pine trees, piercings, acupuncture, knitting!”

Gus jumped up and down, “things with needles! Needle marks!”

“Yes, Gus, yes! Check the victims for needle marks!” Shawn spun with a theatric, exhausted finish and slumped against Lassiter’s chest. Lassie was warm and Shawn burrowed into him a bit before he was unceremoniously shoved away.

“Is this normal?” asked the fake FBI agent.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Lassiter answered through gritted teeth.

“The toxicology report won’t be back until tomorrow and I didn’t notice any injection points during my initial exam,” Woody interjected as though nothing else had happened, “but you’re more than welcome to help me check again.” He whipped the sheets off the naked corpses with a flourish. With a high-pitched squeak, Gus swiftly left the room. He pushed past Agent Young whose green eyes were studying Woody closely.

“Have we met?” he asked the coroner.

Woody cocked his head to the side and whispered, “do you ever hang out behind the rest stop near the Gaviota tunnel?”

“Uh, no, can’t say that I do.”

Woody smiled at him. “I guess I just have one of those faces then!”

“Can we focus here please?!” Lassiter said, waving his arms around a bit.

Shawn smiled to himself. Lassie was cute when he was flustered. A slight movement caught his eye and he looked over to see the quiet, dark-haired psychic – if that’s what he was – peering closely at the left hand of one of the victims before sliding across to look at the same hand on the other victim.

Curious, Shawn leaned down to look at the hands for himself. There was a tiny, faint marking under the nail on the ring finger of each hand. It looked like two slightly warped letter ‘C’s – one of them backward – smashed up against each other. He glanced over to see the trench coat wearing man looking at him and then back at the markings.

_Interesting._

“What is it, Spencer?” Lassiter asked. His tone was soft and inquisitive. He sounded genuinely interested.

Shawn blinked up at him. “There’s a strange symbol here,” he said, gesturing to the ring finger, “and a matching one on the other body.” It occurred to him that he was letting the psychic spiel slip, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Lassiter was looking at him like that; like he _wanted_ to hear what Shawn thought.

The other psychic stepped closer, standing so close to Lassiter that the two men were almost touching. Shawn resisted the urge to pull Lassiter toward him like a territorial boyfriend. An irritated noise from behind him made him turn. The green-eyed Agent Young was looking at his psychic like he wanted to do the exact same thing, but before either of them could do anything, McNab stuck his head into the room.

“Detective Lassiter, Kathryn Becker is here for her interview.”

“Thank you, McNab. Put her in the interrogation room,” Lassiter said, his eyes still on Shawn for whatever reason.

“Yessir!” The boyish officer bounded away happily.

Lassiter was _still_ staring at him. Shawn tipped his head to the side and smiled at him. “What’s up, Lass?” he asked quietly.

Hearing Shawn speak to him seemed to snap Lassiter out of whatever reverie had claimed his attention. He blinked down at Shawn and then looked around the room, a slight blush on his pale cheeks.

“I have an interview to conduct. Agent Young, Mr. Springfield, please let your partner know that I’d be happy to debrief you later.” He turned to Shawn. “Spencer, get Guster and go home. To _your_ home. Or his. Or your office. Anywhere but here. Just… go away.”

“What about your place, Lassie?” Shawn asked in his most flirtatious tone. “Can I go there?”

Impossibly, Lassiter’s blush darkened and his eyes widened a bit.

_And what was **that** about?_

“Set foot near my house and I’ll have you in handcuffs by the end of the day!” he threatened.

Shawn couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud and said, “Is that supposed to be a deterrent, detective? Maybe I like the idea of you pulling out your cuffs for me.”

“Shawn!” Gus yelled, appearing in the doorway. He looked simultaneously scandalized and terrified. His eyes were shooting back and forth between Shawn and Lassiter like he was scared for Shawn’s safety.

Lassiter huffed in irritation and stomped out of the lab, leaving Shawn to stare after him wondering what the hell was going on.

\--

“There is a fair amount of sexual tension in this room,” Castiel said in that infuriatingly logical tone.

The coroner lowered his eyes sadly. “I apologize for that,” he muttered while the police’s fake psychic exchanged amused glances with his partner.

Dean needed to get out of there. Immediately. These people were _weird_ , even for Dean, which was saying something considering his line of work. He made eye contact with Cas and leaned his head toward the door, indicating that Cas should follow.

Once they were back in the hallway, Dean looked around to make sure they were alone before asking, “What did you see in there, on the victims’ hands?”

“A faint symbol,” Castiel replied. He looked worried.

“Well, did you recognize it?” Dean asked impatiently.

Cas nodded, frowning. “It was Enochian. I means ‘death’.”

Dean crossed his arms and looked up, exasperated. “Fantastic.” He clapped a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find Sam.”

They made their way back upstairs and found Sam sitting and having coffee with the pretty blonde detective, talking and smiling. Quite despite himself, Dean found himself grinning at his ‘little’ brother. _Well, go Sammy_.

Sauntering over, he cleared his throat pointedly, trying not to laugh as both Sam and the detective looked up at him almost guiltily. “Agent Crosby,” Dean said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “We should go investigate the crime scenes while Detective Lassiter conducts his interviews.”

“Uh yeah, of course,” Sam said, clearly flustered. He stood up and but looked back down at Detective O’Hara. “I’ll see you soon.”

She smiled and nodded, waving shyly as they made their way out of the station. As soon as they were outside, Dean turned to Sam. “So,” he began, a knowing grin gracing his features.

Sam put his hands up and shook his head. “Forget it, Dean, not happening. Just tell me what you and Cas found out with the bodies.”

Dean wanted to argue, given everything going on in their fucked up lives it didn’t seem like too much to ask to talk about the pretty girl his brother was flirting with. But, before he could protest, Cas spoke up.

“I believe the local authorities are leaning toward the victims being drugged and then murdered, but there is certainly some sort of darker force at work here.”

They brought Sam up to speed on the Enochian markings found on both victims and debated for a while about curses versus witchcraft versus a vengeful spirit before deciding to visit the crime scenes.

Sam hopped into his rental car, but Castiel stayed with Dean as they walked the couple of blocks to where he’d parked the Impala. Dean tried not to be too pleased that Cas hadn’t made any attempt to leave with Sam.

He failed miserably. He glanced over at Cas and smiled. He was, in fact, quite pleased.

Unfortunately, the crime scenes were a bust. Santa Barbara’s police department was top notch and there was nothing at either scene that hadn’t already been meticulously documented in the casefiles.

“I’m fuckin’ wiped,” Dean groused. “I’m going to find a hotel and forget I was up all night… _driving_ ,” he clarified when Sam raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Castiel.

“Have a nice nap, Dean,” Sam said, eyes glinting playfully.

\--

Dean became aware of two things simultaneously as his body clawed its way into consciousness. First was that he’d managed to fall asleep with the motel room television on. He could distantly hear the news anchor handing off the broadcast to a meteorologist inexplicably called Bolt Lightning. He was musing about the utter stupidity of that name when he became aware of the second thing.

There was a mouth on his dick.

He looked down.

OK, more specifically, Cas’ mouth was on his dick.

“So, I’m dreaming,” he said to the ceiling.

He could live with that. Dean had wanted Cas since the first time he’d seen the shadows of the angel’s wings, dangerous and dark; beautiful against that dingy barn wall. He wasn’t going to lie to himself and pretend he’d never imagined fucking him. When he’d found out Cas was essentially a millennia-year-old virgin he’d almost propositioned Cas himself, but Dean was realistic. He was a killer who’d helped start the damn Apocalypse. He wasn’t good enough for an angel, and he certainly wasn’t good enough for Castiel.

He didn’t want to think about that right now. This was his dream for fuck’s sake and if Dream!Cas wanted to suck him off he wasn’t going to complain.

He looked down again and had to smile. Cas was still fully dressed, right down to the trench coat. Dean slid his hands into Castiel’s perpetual sex hair, guiding him gently. Cas’ technique was nonexistent – virgin and all – but he was making up for it in enthusiasm. Dean took a moment to appreciate the realism of his subconscious.

Under Dean’s hands, Cas licked and sucked his way up Dean’s erection, pausing at the head to gently tongue the slit, lapping up the precome that was steadily leaking out. His dream angel was a fast learner.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas… fuck yes,” he whispered as Castiel swallowed him down again. Cas hummed happily around his dick and Dean let himself go. He thrust gently into Castiel’s mouth, writhing and moaning his pleasure. He tried to buck his hips up off the bed, but Cas held him down and sucked harder. Before long, Dean was trembling, sweat glistening on his chest and gathering at his temples.

He found it absurdly necessary to warn Cas that he was close. “Gonna come, Cas,” he gasped but his angel merely tightened his hold on Dean’s hips before moaning low in the back of his throat. The vibrations dragged Dean over the edge and he came hard, spurting into Castiel’s mouth until he saw stars.

By the time he dragged himself back to a state of awareness, Cas was sliding up his body, a small, enigmatic smile on his face. “Hello, Dean,” he whispered, dipping down to capture Dean’s lips; letting him taste himself.

“Hello yourself,” Dean whispered into his angel’s mouth. After a moment, he pulled back and cupped Castiel’s cheek, stroking his jawline tenderly. “I’m dreaming,” he said sadly.

“I know,” Castiel responded. “We both are.”

Dean blinked at him. Cas blinked back.

Dean’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright in the lumpy hotel bed. His eyes darted feverishly around the room that was dimly lit by the neon signs outside. He was alone.

_What the fuck? What the fuck?!_

He wasn’t sure what to make of his dream. He had one or two lucid dreams before, but in none of them did the object of his dreams acknowledge it along with him. Was his mind screwing with him? Or… was Castiel actually dreaming _with_ him? Angels didn’t sleep… did they? There was only one way to find out. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and took a calming breath.

“Cas,” he said quietly. “You got your ears on? I kinda need to ask you something if you don’t mind popping down for a bit.”

He waited.

Nothing.

“Castiel,” Dean pleaded, “please, man.”

There was a soft fluttering noise beside him and then, “hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel wasn’t looking at him. His stormy blue eyes were focused on the nondescript piece of hotel art hanging above the bed. He looked more disheveled than usual.

Dean cleared his throat. “I just had a dream, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel said quickly and in the dark Dean saw his cheeks flush.

“Were you there?”

Cas nodded, his movements jerky and uncomfortable.

“How? Why?!”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Cas said desperately. “I don’t know!” He looked down, finally making eye contact and Dean was more than a little worried to see that Castiel was _frightened._

He stood up and closed the distance between then before framing Cas’ face with his hands. “It’s OK,” whispered. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Castiel closed his eyes, nodding. He looked a little calmer. Dean backed up a little, they didn’t touch like this, he knew that.

Then he caught sight of his hands.

He flicked on the lamp next to the bed and shoved his left hand into the light.

Under the nail on his ring finger was a faint Enochian symbol.

\--

 

 


	3. Leave Tomorrow Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost please accept our apologies for taking so long to update this work. My lovely co-worker has been extremely patient with me while I dealt with a Destiel AU plot bunny that bit me and wouldn't let go. In the future we hope to update more regularly. Thanks for sticking with us! - Mercy

\--

Detective Lassiter signed off on Kathryn Becker’s statement and called for McNab to escort her out to her car. The poor woman had broken down so badly that it made Carlton uncomfortable. He always tried to not get emotional about anyone involved with a case, but the details about this one didn’t make sense and so he actually felt badly for Mrs. Becker.

Everything about the wounds on her husband coupled with the lack of forced entry or any signs of anyone other than Kathryn being in the house made it look as if she was the murderer. His fifteen years as an officer and detective told him she didn’t do it, but he had to have tangible, verifiable proof for the Chief and the DA. He had to have every detail specified. She had no motive; financials were stable, no evidence of infidelity or revenge for either of them, and the physicality of the wounds were impossible for her to have made. Her hands were simply too small to have made the bruises.

Carlton closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He had the other victim’s wife coming in and needed to shake off Kathryn’s interview in order to focus on Rebecca Carpenter. Immediately, an image of Shawn flashed behind his eyelids. He was naked, on his back with the blissed out expression he had seen in his dream. The image made him warm and he was filled with a sudden and deep urge to see that face in reality. He snapped his eyes open and shook his head. Carlton needed to get his head straight before the next wife came in.

He walked behind McNab and Kathryn through the bullpen. He wanted to switch out files and get another shot of coffee, but that goal was interrupted when Officer Miller rounded the corner with Rebecca Carpenter in tow. The moment the two women saw each other, they exploded. Rebecca lunged at Kathryn who had managed to stop crying and shouted.

“Chris did this. Somehow, I know he did!”

“Your husband just wouldn’t let up, would he?”

Carlton and McNab separated the two women while Miller found his way up from the floor.

“McNab, see Mrs. Becker to her vehicle and make sure she gets home. I will get Mrs. Carpenter comfortable in interview room two. Miller, when you manage to scrape yourself off the floor, find Officer Ryan and have HIM join me. O’Hara!” He yelled to his partner who was working on the warrant for the victims’ offices. “Bring me the Carpenter file.” He maneuvered Rebecca towards the steps that led down to the interview rooms, then turned back over his shoulder. “Please.”

The coffee would have to wait, he needed to get control of the situation. He hoped Mrs. Carpenter would be just as forthcoming with information as she was in starting a fight upstairs.

Both O’Hara and Ryan arrived at the same time. Mrs. Carpenter looked up as Carlton opened the door, accepted the file and let in Officer Ryan. He was only there as back up and as a witness in case things got out of hand.

“Mrs. Carpenter. About the shouting match upstairs, why do think Mr. Becker would want your husband dead? They worked in the same office, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Chris and Jake worked the same projects. Recently, they were up for the same one, but this time they headed separate teams. Their boss was supposed to choose one to get the job.” Rebecca started to tear up and reached for the tissue box on the table.

Carlton took notes while she wiped her face. For some damned reason all the tears from the two women was really grating on his nerves. He hated feeling for anyone involved in one of his cases. He just wanted to find the perp and get them off the street. O’Hara was better suited to deal with the family members of victims.

“Jake had played dirty at the office the last few weeks, bringing up past project failures and behavior issues and I’m guessing Chris didn’t like it much.”

“What makes you think that Mr. Becker took issue with your husband’s actions?”

“The last couple days, Jake had bruises on him. He didn’t let me know where he got them. He never really talked about what was happening at work. But last week, he came home with a black eye, his wrist was sore and he was just mad at the dinner table.”

“So you say he came home with these bruises? He went to work fine and returned later with them?” Carlton made a note to ask co-workers of both men to find out if they had witnessed anything between them.

“I assumed they were from the office. We have conflicting work schedules. When I come home he’s asleep and leaves before I wake up. I only really see him at dinner.”

Rebecca sniffed into her tissue then looked up to Carlton’s eyes. She didn’t have the look of someone who had just murdered someone either. Neither of these women could have done this. Shit. Shaw- Spencer was right. Damn it.

“Wait. You don’t think I did this, do you? Jake was all I had. We hadn’t been able to have kids. I would never have done this.”

She totally broke down in front of Carlton and he suddenly felt tired. Tired from the lack of sleep, tired from this case that made no sense and tired from being pulled at emotionally.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. When she made eye contact, he spoke.

“I don’t think you did this. I also don’t think Kathryn Becker did this either. The SBPD will find out what happened. The FBI has even sent some agents to help us.” He hoped the addition of the agents would give her more hope in finding answers to her husband’s death.

Officer Ryan walked her out and Carlton sat with her statement in front of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The facts didn’t make a damned bit of sense. The wounds and the evidence on the bodies led him to think both men were strangled and beaten. But they were in their own beds. Was he supposed to believe they were murdered while they slept?

The Chief had hinted at a supernatural element to this case. _If_ Carlton were to think in that direction…

“Insane. These guys did _not_ kill each other while they slept. That’s impossible. There’s an acceptable, logical explanation to this. I just have to find it.”

He closed the file and started up the stairs back towards his desk. As he sat down, he couldn’t help but feel like something was scratching against his neck. Sometimes a new shirt would irritate him, but the one he was wearing wasn’t new. Maybe he had missed a few stray hairs as he shaved this morning?

He didn’t want to get up and make his way to the Men’s Room, so he opened the camera app on his phone. He opened up his collar to try and find the offensive hair, but instead he saw a few lines like scratches. He couldn’t quite see the detail he wanted in the phone.

His partner usually had a mirror in her desk. He had seen her use it on occasion. He slid his chair over and looked for anyone who may be watching him. He pulled open the first drawer and found nothing but pens and candy bars. His brow furrowed, as he couldn’t remember the last time he saw his partner eat a sweet. Did she sneak it when he wasn’t looking?

The second drawer held the mirror and he pulled it out. He unbuttoned his shirt further and once again opened his collar to look at what had irritated his neck. He saw parallel scratches on both sides of his neck, but there wasn’t anything that stabbed him on the shirt collar. He ran his fingers across the full length of his collar and found nothing.

Carlton closed the compact mirror and found his partner staring at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh, well, I needed to… something itched and I needed to see what it was.”

“Let me see,” Juliet demanded.

Before he could object, she had her hands on his collar and was looking at his neck.

“O’Hara. Okay, back up.” He managed to wrangle her off him and he started to button his collar.

“Carlton, these are fingernail marks.”

He stopped in the middle of tying his tie at her words. It looked like that to him as well, but no one had scratched him.

Except.

No.

Horrified, he felt himself blush and he looked up at Juliet, watching her make the connection.

“Did you have a _date_ last night, Carlton?” Juliet asked, her expression delighted.

“What?” He felt his cheeks flush even more; the memory of last night’s dream with Shawn so clear. “No. Maybe I just dragged the razor the wrong way earlier this morning.” Juliet made a face at him and shook her head in disbelief.

Lassiter took his chair back to his desk and finished tying his tie, but he was distracted. He tried to think of anything that could have scratched his neck like that, but came up with nothing. The only time he had even come close to feeling anything on his neck besides his razor, and he had never scratched himself like this while shaving, was in that dream.

Shawn. Shawn had scratched him. He remembered, vividly, the feeling of Shawn’s nails on him, dream or not, he’d felt it. Could _feel_ it.

Couldn’t be. It was entirely possible he scratched himself while he slept and his mind had imagined Shawn doing it in his dream. Yes, that’s the explanation he felt comfortable with; so he’ll stick with that.

\--

Dean and Castiel sat in the Impala, parked in the lot next to the office where the SBPD’s ‘psychic’ and his partner worked. Sam would be meeting them soon after a rather frantic phone call where Dean attempted to explain the markings that had popped up on his – and as they noticed shortly afterward – Castiel’s fingernails.

Dean glanced toward the passenger seat. Cas wasn’t looking at him; had been avoiding eye contact since they learned they shared the markings. Dean wasn’t sure what to make of his angel’s silence and avoidance.

His angel. Huh.

Dean cleared his throat. “Cas,” he began, “I-“

“Sam’s here,” Castiel interrupted, nodding his head toward the rental hybrid that had pulled into an adjacent space.

A moment later, Sam’s floppy head appeared in Castiel’s window and Dean waved him in. Sam slid into the backseat and looked back and forth between Cas and Dean. He left the backdoor cracked so that the dome light illuminated the inside of the car. Dean was about to object to the unreasonable usage of Baby’s battery when Sam said:

“Can I see them?”

Dean and Castiel lifted their hands simultaneously, turning in their seats and presenting their markings to Sam. They were identical, a slightly tilted, sideways half circle with two narrow wedges jutting from the apex of the curve. “These don’t look like the ones you described. The ones that were on the victims.”

Castiel nodded his agreement. “The location is the same, but the mark is different.” Cas met Dean’s eyes briefly before looking back to Sam. Castiel was reluctant to elaborate and Dean understood why. The mark was different as was its implication.

“Well?” Sam prompted. “What does this one mean?”

“Love.” Castiel said simply.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up but he seemed to restrain himself from commenting. “OK, when did you notice the marks?”

“This afternoon,” Dean answered.

Sam rolled his eyes. “What _happened_? What were you doing? Did you see anyone? Did the marks just… appear?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Help me out here, Dean.”

Before Dean could think of how to respond, Castiel did it for him. “Dean and I shared an erotic dream while he was napping at the hotel. We discovered the markings immediately afterward.”

“Cas! Jesus Christ!” Dean sputtered, red faced.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, looking at Dean quizzically.

“You can’t just _say_ shit like that!” Dean hazarded a look at Sam. His baby brother was blushing slightly, but more than anything else he looked intrigued, academically at least.

“OK, well. I guess ‘love’ is better than ‘death,’ but it still doesn’t explain what the markings mean or where they came from.” Sam looked around the parking lot. “Why are we here?”

Dean welcomed the subject change. Cas was still looking at him with that confused, almost hurt expression and Dean didn’t have the emotional energy to deal with that at the moment.

“That’s why,” Dean replied, pointing toward the building nearest them, where Shawn Spencer had just emerged and hopped on a small, black motorcycle. He turned the key and Baby’s engine roared to life. “Sammy, shut your door.”

Slowly, Dean pulled out onto the road and followed the bike, careful to keep his distance. “Cas says this kid saw the markings on the victims too and considering the number of cases he’s closed we thought it would be a good idea to talk to him away from the local PD.”

Twenty minutes and a dozen or so turns later, Spencer pulled up outside a cozy looking house; white with rust-colored trim. However, instead of going inside, the ‘psychic’ strolled across the street where Dean had parked the Impala. Spencer tapped on Dean’s window and leaned his head inside once Dean had rolled it down.

“You know,” he said with a smug smile on his face, “if you’re going to follow someone you probably shouldn’t do it in such an _obvious_ car. Or, did they not teach you that at Quantico?” Spencer smirked and started heading back across the road, pausing to throw a look over his shoulder. “You coming in?” he called and walked toward the house.

Dean, Castiel and Sam exchanged glances and followed him.

\--

Shawn looked behind him to make sure the fake FBI agents and their… whatever he was were following him. When they made their way to the porch, Shawn opened the door and led them inside.

When he’d pulled away from the _Psych_ office his original destination had been to the police station. He wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself that he wanted to see Lassie, but…

Fuck it, he wanted to see Lassie. It was late, but he knew Lassiter would still be working. Lassiter was always working. He hadn’t been able to get the lanky detective out of his head and he’d be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t hoping that seeing Lassie would trigger another dream. Oddly enough, his dream sex with Lassie was possibly the best sex he’d had in a very, very long time.

He was trying not to read too much into how he’d felt when he woke up. Satisfied, yes, but… also disappointed that it was a dream. He wanted Lassie to look at him like that for _real_. To touch him, taste him, make love to him.

Woah. What?

He’d pushed that thought away and focused on the drive to the station.

But, then he’d heard the roar of an engine behind him and he’d caught the lines of a sleek, black monster of a car in his bike’s side mirror. During one turn he’d managed to catch a glimpse of its occupants: the fake FBI agents. After a few more meandering turns, it was clear they were following him. He was careful to keep the car in his sights and changed direction to head to his dad’s house.

Now that they were here, it was time to make use of the ‘human lie detector.’

“Dad?” he called and Henry Spencer made his way from the kitchen, slinging a dishtowel over his shoulder.

“Shawn,” Henry said, irritated, “whatever favor you need I don’t-“ he broke off as Shawn’s companions filed into the room. “And who are you?” Henry questioned.

“Apologies,” Shawn said, grinning, “my dad’s never been able to turn off the whole ‘cop’ thing.”

“My ‘cop’ thing has saved your ass on more occasions than I can count, kid.” Henry retorted and Shawn rolled his eyes.

“Dad, these are FBI agents,” he looked at his father pointedly and Henry gave an almost imperceptible nod, taking his meaning.

As if on cue, the men produced their badges and introduced themselves. “Agents Crosby and Young,” the taller man said, “and this is our colleague Mr. Springfield.”

Henry looked at Shawn again, this time nodding fully and Shawn lifted his fisted hands in triumph. He did so _love_ being right. His success even soothed the sting of his father figuring it out so freaking _fast_.

“OK, gentlemen, let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?” Henry said, crossing his arms over his chest. He ticked off the names on his fingers. “David Crosby, Neil Young and Buffalo Springfield? _Really_?”

Shawn blinked, “What’s a buffalo springfield?”

Henry gaped at him. “You know, there was music recorded before the year 1980.” He looked back over at the fake FBI agents. “I apologize for my son’s life. Now, who the hell are you and why did my kid bring you here?”

“These men are Sam and Dean Winchester,” Castiel said before anyone could stop him, “and my name is Castiel, I am-“

“Our friend. He’s our friend,” the shorter Winchester cut in, glaring at Castiel. He sighed and tucked away his fake FBI badge. “I’m Dean and this is my brother, Sam.”

“Look,” Sam said, taking a plaintive step forward, “we’re sorry for the ruse. We _are_ investigators, but given our… unconventional area of expertise we aren’t usually welcomed by law enforcement.” He looked at Shawn, a knowing expression on his face. “But, as a _psychic_ , I’m sure you can understand that, right Mr. Spencer? Detective Lassiter didn’t seem to have much use for your… clairvoyance.”

Shawn did _not_ like the sound of that. Neither the implication that Lassie didn’t like working with him nor the clear suggestion that he was not, in fact, a psychic. He chanced a look at his dad but Henry had apparently wandered back into the kitchen, leaving Shawn alone with three men who seemed to know that he was as much of a fraud as they were. He considered a moment and made his decision.

“All right,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness, “fair enough. If you don’t out me, I won’t out you. No one gets arrested and we can work this case together.” Shawn glanced at his watch. “It’s late and I need my beauty sleep. Since you clearly know where my office is, meet me there tomorrow. 10AM?”

The brothers nodded. Castiel said nothing.

\--

Shawn found himself in Lassiter’s apartment, sitting on Lassiter’s hideous couch, feet propped up on Lassiter’s coffee table. He blinked, trying to figure out when he’d gotten here and why when Lassiter himself came through the front door, shrugged off his suit jacket, walked right over to Shawn and yanked him up off the couch.

“Lassie?”

“Shut up, Shawn,” Lassiter growled and crashed their mouths together. Shawn melted into his touch, moaning as Lassie licked into his mouth, their tongues sliding together sensuously.

_I’m dreaming again._ Shawn realized. He settled his hands on Lassiter’s hips, pulling him closer so he could feel the other man’s arousal.

As their erections rubbed together, Lassiter kissed his way down Shawn’s throat and then licked a hot, wet line up to a spot behind Shawn’s ear that made him shiver.

“Oh,” Lassiter murmured against his skin. “Is that a good spot?”

The only answer Shawn could manage was a broken whimper, but Lassie chuckled and lowered his mouth to the spot again, biting and sucking and marking until Shawn thrust so hard against him that they almost toppled to the floor.

“Lassie,” Shawn whispered. “Take me to bed.”

Lassiter pulled back and looked down at him, a considering expression on his face. His eyes were beautiful; shockingly blue and lust blown. Reaching down, he grabbed Shawn’s hand and led him back to his bedroom.

“Sit,” Lassie ordered, pointing at the bed. Shawn obeyed, surprising even himself, and sat.

He was rewarded for that obedience by getting to watch Lassiter strip slowly. Removing his badge and holster before loosening his tie and pulling it off with a snap of his wrist. He smirked down at Shawn, popping the buttons on his dress shirt one by one by one until it hung open at his sides. He unbuttoned the shirt cuffs and rolled his shoulders back, letting the garment slide off and onto the floor. His undershirt followed and Shawn’s hands twitched at his sides. He was achingly hard and desperate to get his mouth on as much exposed Lassie-skin as possible.

“Not yet,” Lassiter whispered, taking note of Shawn’s impatience.

He unbuckled his belt and pulled it slowly, so _fucking_ slowly, free from the loops. He held it for a moment and mumbled something that sounded like ‘next time’ before dropping it and unfastening his trousers. He pulled them off along with his boxers until he was finally, gloriously nude.

“Fuck,” Shawn heard himself gasp.

“Eventually,” Lassiter, the smarmy shit, replied. “You’re a bit overdressed, wouldn’t you say?” He stepped toward the bed and knelt, gripping the hem of Shawn’s t-shirt and lifting it over his head. Lassie leaned in to flick his tongue over Shawn’s nipples while simultaneously popping the button on Shawn’s jeans, sliding the zipper down and palming his erection through the thin fabric of his underwear.

Overcome with sensation, Shawn fell back against the bed, hands fisting desperately at the comforter. He felt Lassiter tugging at his jeans and had the presence of mind to lift his hips so Lassie could remove them.

He expected to feel wet heat surround his cock, but instead, Lassie spread his legs apart and pushed them up, encouraging Shawn to hold them, spreading himself open. He glanced down in time to see Lassiter’s head dip and then a tongue, slippery and warm slid across his entrance.

“Lassie,” Shawn gasped, “Jesus Christ, Lass…”

Lassiter hummed against him, pressing tiny kisses around his rim and the vibrations shot straight to the base of his dick. Seconds later the tongue was back, licking up and down, swirling around the puckered ring of muscle before pushing in, gently at first and then harder and deeper until Lassie was tongue-fucking him in earnest.

Shawn hooked his arms under his knees and pulled them as open as he could, anxious to feel Lassiter deeper inside him. And _fuck_ Lassie complied, fucking his tongue so far into Shawn that stars sparked behind his eyes. His legs trembled as Lassie licked him further and further open but suddenly the wet muscle was gone.

Before Shawn had a chance to complain, he felt two slick fingers press inside of him, crooking to rub against his prostate and he arched off the bed, shouting Lassie’s name. Lassiter stood up, fingers still pumping away and leaned down to kiss him. Shawn was dimly aware that kissing someone after such an intimate act should be disgusting, but it just wasn’t. He looped his arms around Lassiter’s neck, pulling him closer and plundering his mouth.

A third finger joined the two already inside him and Shawn felt a familiar heat coiling low in his belly. “Lassie,” he whined, “fuck me, please. I want to come while you fuck me.”

Lassiter growled against his mouth and pulled his fingers free. Seconds later, Shawn felt the head of Lassiter’s cock pushing against him and with a snap of the other man’s hips he was deliciously filled.

“Shawn,” Lassie groaned, biting at the tender flesh under Shawn’s ear, “you feel so _fucking_ good. So hot and tight around me. So _perfect_ around me.”

The combination of Lassiter’s sinfully hot voice whispering absolute filth in his ear and Lassiter’s thick cock dragging against his prostate pushing Shawn over the edge. He came, untouched, spraying his release between them.

Lassiter slowed his thrusts, fucking Shawn through his climax, drawing it out until Shawn sank back, boneless.

“That,” Lassiter said smugly, “was fucking hot.” He stroked his hands up Shawn’s sides, soothing him before he picked up the pace again, thrusting half a dozen times before he came too, emptying himself inside Shawn. Lassiter’s softening cock slipped free and he collapsed on the bed next to Shawn, pulling him into his arms.

“We need to do that again,” Shawn murmured, exhausted, and Lassiter chuckled against him, humming his agreement sleepily.

Shawn’s last thought before he drifted off was how odd it was to fall asleep while he was already dreaming.

\--

From a shadowed corner of the bedroom a pretty redhead appeared and smiled down at the sleeping men.

“Salem,” a voice said from behind her.

“Actium,” she answered, turning to face her mentor. Actium was looking at the bed, beneath his scraggly beard his face was a curious mixture of impatience, exasperation and curiosity.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“They care for each other,” Salem said fondly. “I’ve simply removed their inhibitions while they’re in our realm.”

Actium sighed at her. “We’ve been _over_ this. Over it and _over_ it!” He stepped closer to his young student. “We are bringers of pain. Of destruction and misery and death.” He pointed Salem’s targets. “We do not do… whatever _this_ is.”

Salem stood her ground. “I’m not going to hurt, people, Actium. We’ve been over that as well.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder defiantly.

“The council assigned you to me precisely because you are obstinate.” Actium waved a forewarning finger in her face. “I’ve broken stronger objectors than you, Salem. By the time we are done you _will_ fall in line.”

Salem raised her chin, refusing to back down. “You’re certainly welcome to try,” she replied and with a snap of her fingers, vanished.

Actium sighed heavily and looked down at the bed again. A slow, sly smile spread across his face. Perhaps his disobedient student needed a push in the right direction. He wondered how eager she would be to defy the council once he made a mess of her playthings.

Rolling up his sleeves, Actium made his way toward the sleeping detective and the man he held tightly in his arms.

\--


End file.
